Mother every way

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Helen Fredericson's auburn hair, piled high in a French twist, accentuated her creamy complexion and the shimmer of her emerald-green eyes. The stark white of a high-necked hostess gown revealed a size thirty-seven bust line that even a severe bra failed to confine and the firm curvature of size thirty-six hips; the effect was to give her five-foot-six-inch figure a regal appearance that was reinforced by her grace and composure. She busied herself straightening up evidence of company, emptying ashtrays, wiping away rings left by glasses, and smoothing wrinkled cushions.

Art Fredericson hovered over his wife, hands deep-thrust into his pockets, lips compressed, and weight shifting from one foot to the other. His gaze wandered over her body, drawn by each movement of a muscle, and he continually wetted his lips with his tongue tip. His sun-bleached hair was tousled, and it seemed natural above a face roughened by years of exposure to the weather and eyes whose blue had faded in the wind. His lean six-one frame saved him from looking short in contrast to his wife's height, and he had an aura of suppressed explosiveness about him.

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